Page 17 of The Hitch
"Hello?"
"Melody?" Ella's voice is slightly muffled, like she's chewing on something.
"Yes, it's me! Did you get my voicemail?" I sit up straight.
"Mmhm." Ella pauses, slurping something. "The guy found you at your job, huh? Dante? Any last name?"
"Umm…" I chew on my lower lip, completely unsure why I feel trepidation about giving his full name. I can't bethatfucked up, that I don't want my murderer-to-be known to the police. Right? "Lyons. Dante Lyons."
"Did he threaten you in any way?" Ella couldn't sound any more disinterested if she tried.
"Not… exactly. He said he's been looking for me, and that he has connections, and that's how he found me." I grimace as I finish.
"Wait, he's been looking for you? And he only found you today? So, why do you think he's the one who broke in?" Ella punctuates her questions with a bite of something crunchy, and my stomach gurgles.
"Because… I don't know!" I stand and huff out a breath of frustration. "Because he's been leaving roses here? With a purple ribbon around them! And heknewabout that! Who else would know but the stalker?"
"Melody, I'm going to ask you to calm down. Did he tell you in plain English that he left you flowers? In your home?"
Shit. No. I sound crazy, and she's going to discounteverythingI say because of that. I rub my eyes and sigh into the phone. "No."
"Well, then. There you go. He can't be the stalker. Honestly, Melody, your story about this guy doesn't add up. I'm not a mental health professional, but I think you need to talk to someone about your paranoia. I'd be happy to send you some resources." She swallows loudly. "Otherwise, I hope you enjoy your evening."
Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, sharp and hot. "No, thank you. Goodbye." I tap the end call button so hard I think I might shatter my screen. Fuck. Fuck!
In the back of my mind, I knew the cops wouldn't do anything. They didn't before, so why would they now? But it hurts all the same to hear the disbelief, the accusations of paranoia, the dismissal. I stop myself from throwing my phone at the wall and flop back down onto my bed. The tears burn a path down my temples to my ears, pooling on my shitty blanket.
This man, this monster, found me. He broke into my home, left evidence of his presence, andfound meat my job. And thecops aren't taking it seriously. He intimidated me in a fucking cemetery—why didn't I tell Ella that?
"Because she wouldn't care in the slightest," I whisper to myself between shaky breaths. I wish I had more money saved up. I wish I had any kind of exit plan besides fleeing the country. I can't even afford todriveto Mexico, let alone fly. And my passport… fuck. My passport is in my real name.
My real name—the woman that everyone thinks was kidnapped six months ago. Tied to a gruesome murder outside of Chicago. That woulddefinitelyraise flags at the border. I roll onto my side and curl up in a fetal ball, swiping away tears.
I stare at the little lamp on my bedside table. It was free, left on the table in the lobby of my building, where residents usually leave things they don't want anymore. The building maintenance man told me someone left it in their unit when they moved out. The whole time I've had it, it's been covered in construction dust. I just never cared to clean it off.
But it's totally clean now. Anothergiftfrom that asshole in the suit. The metal of the base is a polished silver, with a beige lampshade over the LED bulb. Usually, I find the light warm and cozy. But it just seems wrong. He's also shifted its position—the cord leading down the wall outlet has always faced away from me, but it's been turned towards my bed.
I reach out and twirl it back. Something small—and sounding like plastic—clinks against the metal base. What the fuck? I sit up and scoot the lamp closer to me, listening intently. Yeah, there's somethinginthe base. There definitely wasn't when I first brought it in—it was just a normal lamp.
Or maybe I'm going crazy, and Ella is right. Iambeing paranoid. But if I can ease my worries by looking…. I pick up the lamp, and a tiny plastic cube rattles out onto the table. My stomach drops to the floor. What thefuckis that?
With shaking hands, I pick it up and inspect the little thing. It's black and mostly plastic, but it has a tiny hole on one side and a shiny glass square on another. Almost like a teeny, tiny camera—
I throw it and listen to the satisfyingtinkof it hitting the wall. The stupid little gadget falls somewhere in my laundry pile. Maybe that fucker Dante will get a good view of my sweat-stained work shirts before it goes into the laundry in the basement.
"Fuck you, Dante!" I whisper-shout and laugh to myself. Maybe I'll do laundry tomorrow and relish in drowning the camera. Something that tiny had to cost him a pretty penny—and it's just so sweet that its end will be in an agitated tub of water and soap. And if it survives that, there's no way it'll survive the dryer.
And even if it does, I'll toss it out into the alley behind the building. He can get a front-row seat to the local kids smoking weed in high definition. Fuck you, Dante.
Having a plan makes me feel infinitely better and I snuggle myself into bed, ready for a restful night's sleep. I smile up at the drop-tile ceiling and mouth "good night" to the obscure faces in the texture patterns. Pareidolia, that's what it's called. The satisfaction of remembering the name warms my heart and I rub my legs together under the blanket like a cricket.
I don't fucking needElla. I can take care of myself. Always have, always will.
And if that smarmy asshole rears his (admittedly, very attractive) face again… well. I've gotten rid of a man before. I can certainly do it again. Me and my new knife will make sure of that.
The scent of leather and cedarwood fills my nostrils as I wake from alovelydream where I was stabbing Mister Fancy-suitMcAsshole to death. Keeping my eyes closed, I yawn and stretch and feel… warmth. There's that same warmth beside me, like all those weeks ago.
My heart seizes, and my eyes spring open, but the bed is empty. That familiar depression in the crappy mattress is back, though, and it's warm. Shockingly warm. Like there was someone there only seconds ago.
